


Written In The Stars

by TheBreakfastGenie



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-16
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-11-29 13:06:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/687286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBreakfastGenie/pseuds/TheBreakfastGenie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sam Winchester return to a town they haven't lived in for two years. When a blue-eyed stranger helps Dean out of a difficult situation, he finds his life changing in ways he never imagined. Dean will deal with eccentric teachers and the dysfunctional Milton family, but will he also find true love? High school AU, DESTIEL.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Boys Are Back In Town

**Author's Note:**

> If the formatting is screwy I assure you I will be working to fix it. I'm new to this site and still learning the ropes! I hope you enjoy the story!

Dean wanted his baby. Even if it was technically his dad’s car, John Winchester didn’t take care of her nearly as well as Dean did. How cool would it be to pull up to the first day of school in a beautifully restored 1967 Chevy Impala? That would be a way to make an entrance. Then someone might pay enough attention to remember him.   
Sam kicked a rock with his toe and watched it bounce into the street.   
“This is stupid, Dean,” he complained.   
“Look on the bright side, Sammy,” Dean smiled encouragingly, “at least we’re not totally new here. Who would’ve guessed we’d come back to the same town twice?”  
“I still have to go to a new school. Sure it’s easy for you, drop back in for a couple months, say hi to your old friends. I’m supposed to be starting high school.”  
Dean sighed. He didn’t like seeing his little brother so dejected. Their dad, of course, had done nothing to comfort Sam the night before, although for once Dean couldn’t really blame him. Sometime last year Sam had given up on their dad entirely and now confided solely in his brother. Dean swallowed down the anger at his father for pushing Sam—both of them—so far away. And he was pissed that they had to walk to school.   
“You went to middle school with some of these kids, right? I’m sure they’ll remember you,” Dean hoped his brother couldn’t tell he was lying through his teeth. No one ever remembered the Winchesters. Here today, gone tomorrow. That was their life.   
“Dean we’ve been here for a month. No one’s talked to us or anything,” Sam sighed. “Nobody remembers us. It was four years ago, and we didn’t even stay until school was out.”  
Yeah, Sammy, I know. It sucks ass. Which is why I really just want to be done.  
“We live in a motel and do most of our shopping at three AM. Maybe they just haven’t seen us,” Dean shrugged. “There’s always Bobby.”  
Sam smiled. Bobby was a good friend, no, more than that really. Deep down, Sam and Dean trusted Bobby Singer more than they trusted their own father. Bobby had been in and out of their lives as long as they could remember, but it was through no fault of his own. John was the one who moved them across the country every few months.   
“Look, Sammy, we’re here. Home of the wombats!” Dean pointed to the purple-and-grey decked brick building that rose imposingly in front of them. “You’ll meet me by the doors after school, right?”  
Sam mustered up a smile for his big brother.   
“Of course, Dean. Let’s go kick this school’s ass.”  
******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************  
Dean scanned the crowd for his brother. Students had a tendency to linger on the first day, exchanging phone numbers, dropping classes, and generally getting in his way. The final bell had been fifteen minutes ago but the lobby was still swamped. Dean thought he heard his name being called and turned in the direction of the sound, only to see Sam waving frantically towards him. Grinning, Dean parted the sea of bodies.   
“Dean! Dean!” Sam was practically bouncing with excitement, the exact opposite of what he’d been that morning. Dean couldn’t help grinning from ear to ear, relieved to see his brother happy. “Guess who’s here?” Sam was shouting, and then Dean was getting punched in the arm.   
His attacker pushed pulled back to stand next to Sam, grinning almost as much as Dean was.   
“Jo! I can’t believe they let you into high school!” he teased, happy to see a familiar face.   
“I can’t believe you guys didn’t tell me you were back in town! My mom is gonna flip. After she’s done kicking both your asses for not dropping by,” Jo said.   
She was the same girl he’d known two years ago but also different, more grown-up. It was easy to forget she was the same age as Sam.   
“The two of you are coming home with me today, no excuses,” she continued, and Dean remembered the way twelve-year-old Jo had defiantly flipped her blonde ponytail at him in a fast food restaurant two years ago.   
She’d stopped them on their way to the door and bluntly asked “Do you two eat here, like, every day?”   
“Uh… yeah?” he’d replied lamely, not sure what to do with this gutsy middle school girl.   
“Not tonight,” she’d asserted boldly. “Tonight you’re eating at my house.”   
She hadn’t even known their names. They told her on the way over, and she introduced herself to them. Jo Harvelle, a seventh grader, she’d seen them around. Her mom, Ellen, had fussed over them from the moment they walked in the door.   
“Mom, this is Sam and Dean Winchester,” Jo had said proudly.   
“Are you John Winchester’s boys?” she’d asked, and Sam had nodded mutely while Dean stuttered out an answer.   
“Uh, yes ma’am. You know him?”  
“I’ve heard of him,” she’d answered, leaving the boys to get food from the refrigerator. “Any friend of his is a friend of mine.”  
“Your mom still have the bar?” Dean asked the grinning, fourteen-year-old Jo in front of him.   
“Yeah, she’s got it. Still won’t let me work in it,” Jo grumbled.   
“Hey, Sam, is that your brother?” a brown-haired boy asked.   
Sam beamed.   
“Yeah, this is my brother, Dean. Dean this is Brady, he’s in my biology class.”  
Dean nodded to the boy. It was good to see Sam already making friends.   
Brady waved to a blonde-haired girl who stumbled through the thinning crowd to join the little group.   
“Hey, Jess, have you met Sam Winchester? He’s new. ”   
Dean noticed Jo was glowering.   
Jess introduced herself, offering Sam a shy smile.   
“Sorry we can’t stay, but my mom should be here any minute,” she adjusted her backpack. “I’ll see you around!” she called on her way out the door. Brady followed her.   
“Come on, guys, we should get going too,” said Jo, who seemed to have recovered from her bad mood.   
On the walk to Jo’s house Dean hung back from Sam slightly, matching Jo’s shorter strides.   
“You wanna tell me what that evil eye was about back there?” he asked.   
Jo bit her lip.   
“It’s Brady. He’s… trouble. Not, like, anything serious. He’s just kind of a jerk,” Jo explained hesitantly.   
Sam and Jo had gone to different middle schools during the Winchesters’ first stay in the town, which meant Jo had spent three years or more in school with kids Sam had never even met.   
“What about Jessica?” Dean asked.   
Jo shrugged.   
“I don’t really know Jess at all. We had a couple classes together in middle school and she always seemed nice enough. I could never figure out why she hung out with Brady. I think they knew each other when they were little or something.”   
The trio turned onto Jo’s street.   
“I hope you guys are prepared,” Jo teased, “I wasn’t kidding when I said Mom was going to kick your ass.”  
******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************  
“Mom? I’m home!” Jo called. Sam and Dean followed her into the house. Ellen had always made them feel welcome here, and Dean quickly realize that after two years it still felt almost like home. Or like the closest thing he had to a home.   
“Jo, baby,” Ellen came out of the kitchen beaming, “how was your first day of high school?” Mother and daughter embraced and then Ellen caught sight of the two brothers hanging patiently in the background. “Joanna Beth Harvelle! Is that who I think it is?”  
“In the flesh.” Jo flashed Dean and Sam a look that said ‘I told you so.’  
“What the hell were you boys thinking not telling me you were back in town?” Ellen scolded, moving to them each in succession. “You planning to stay long this time?”  
“I don’t really know,” Dean admitted. “Dad hasn’t told us anything. Haven’t really seen that much of him since he dropped us off at the beginning of August.”  
Ellen frowned.   
“You boys have been here a whole month and you didn’t think to call me?” Dean opened his mouth but was instantly quieted by another glare. “And don’t you give me any of that ‘it’s been two years’ crap. I know you still have my number.” It was true, Dean did have her number, along with Bobby’s, permanently saved in his cellphone. And written down in case anything something happened to his phone. “A whole month you’ve been staying in some cheap motel, probably eating fast food crap every night.” Dean looked sheepish. “I know you’ll turn me down flat, but my offer from last time is still open.”   
Ellen wanted Sam and Dean to stay at her house. Dean had refused—though he wanted nothing more than to say ‘yes’—because he knew his dad wouldn’t approve. John Winchester didn’t like what he called ‘taking charity.’  
“Thanks, Ellen, but the answer is still no,” Dean said politely.   
Ellen shook her head.   
“Well at least I can make sure you get some decent nutrition once in a while,” she muttered. “Starting tonight, no excuses.”  
Dean had to smile, remembering how much of Jo’s attitude came from her mother.   
“It’s good to see you guys again,” he admitted.   
Like Bobby, Ellen and Jo were family.


	2. My Old School

As it turned out, neither Dean nor Sam had any classes with any of Dean’s old teachers from sophomore year. None of them taught any freshmen or senior classes.   
Dean’s first class of the day was advanced biology with a creepy older guy who seemed to have a case of perpetual flu-like symptoms. Dean had never met someone with so much mucus. Either the guy never took a day off or the school couldn’t afford a sub, because he every day there he was, coughing violently and infecting everyone within a ten foot radius. Mr. Rutto never bothered to make a seating chart—Dean suspected he couldn’t tell the difference through his foggy glasses—so the front row quickly became a wasteland. No one was willing to take the risk of sitting so close to the teacher. If you could call him that, since nobody ever seemed to learn anything.   
Dean made a habit of stopping at his locker to exchange his books before his fourth period math class. That was where he was—cursing as he tried to find his homework—when a familiar person found him.   
“Dean?” she asked hesitantly. “I didn’t know you were back.”   
Dean turned around to find himself face-to-face with a slender brunette.   
“Lisa” he breathed. “It’s been a while.”  
They’d dated most of their sophomore year—almost the entire time Dean had been in town. He’d broken up with her when he realized he would be leaving soon. Lisa had made some noise about long-distance at first, but Dean talked her out of it. It didn’t take much convincing; neither of them wanted to be tied to something like that. Dean really wasn’t looking for that sort of commitment right now, not in high school.   
Lisa’s face lit up.   
“I heard all these rumors, you know, that you were back in town, but I didn’t think… you told me you didn’t go back to the same place twice,” she said awkwardly.   
“I don’t. Or at least I didn’t used to,” Dean replied. “This is a first.”  
“Maybe this school is just special,” Lisa winked. “Is your brother really a freshman now?”  
For the first time since the conversation began Dean genuinely smiled.   
“Yeah, Sam’s growing up fast.” Dean shifted his weight. “Look, Lis, it’s been good talking to you. I’ve got to go to class.”  
“Yeah, okay.” Lisa looked as if she were thinking something over. “Look, you should come over for dinner sometime. My parents would love to catch up with you. And Ben missed you.”   
Dean rolled his eyes.   
“I don’t think your Jack Russell terrier even remembers the guy you dated for a few months two years ago,” he laughed.   
Dean missed the hurt in Lisa’s eyes.   
“Just… think about it, okay?”   
“Yeah, okay,” Dean agreed distractedly. “Yeah, sure.”   
Lisa smiled.   
“I hope you’re not late to class,” she called as she walked away.   
“Shit!” Dean muttered. He’d almost forgotten he was on his way to math.   
He also hadn’t gotten her number.  
******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************  
Dean couldn’t figure out if it was because trig was right before lunch, or if Mr. Hambre’s presence made everyone unreasonably hungry, but every single student was constantly eating right through class. Every student except Dean, that is. Trigonometry raised his appetite, too, but he had more important things to spend his money on than snacks for math class. Bobby was kind enough to let him work at his garage after school, and Dean had spent all of August there, but that money was his emergency fund. What little money John did send came erratically and in random chunks. The boys had no idea where it came from—although Dean suspected it wasn’t entirely legal—but it paid for hotel bills and food, most of the time.   
Dean had fifth period lunch anyway, so it wasn’t really that hard to hold out until the end of math. The only person in his lunch he was even close to knowing was a sophomore named Ruby who was in Sam’s algebra class and ate French fries every day. Dean didn’t actually like her very much at all, but she always seemed to have information and Sam seemed to like her, so Dean tolerated her for his sake.   
After lunch was world Mr. Guerre’s world history class, which appeared to mean every war, skirmish, and generally bloody event since the beginning of time. Dean slept through that one as often as he could.   
Dean’s last class of the day was English Literature 12 with the quiet, perfectionist, passionate, obsessive Mr. Mort. Their first reading assignment was Death of a Salesman.  
“I want all of you to pay close attention to the way Arthur Miller presents the concept of death,” Mr. Mort’s lectures always sounded like rehearsed speeches. “Willy Loman is actively seeking death. Perhaps he senses that his death will restore order to the lives of his family.”  
Dean hated to admit it, but he was actually learning a lot from that guy’s class.   
******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************  
On the walk home Sam was sullen and quiet. It didn’t take Dean long to figure out that something had happened at school.   
“What’s wrong, Sammy?” he asked casually, not wanting to start a scene.   
Sam scowled.   
“It’s nothing, Dean,” he muttered angrily.   
“Sam,” Dean said, using his Big Brother voice. “Tell me what happened.”  
Sam sighed dejectedly.   
“Brady’s a jerk, that’s all. I should have listened to Jo.”  
Dean’s whole body tensed.   
“I’ll rip his lungs out,” Dean hissed, too quiet for Sam to hear.   
******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************  
It took some convincing, but Jo reluctantly agreed to invite Sam to hang out after school the next day in order to keep him out of the way. She’d grumbled quite a bit about it, because, apparently, she would prefer to kick Brady in the shins herself, but in the end she cooperated.   
Dean waited until he saw Brady milling around by himself on the empty patio behind the school. Now that the novelty of a new year had worn off, most of the student body disappeared the second the final bell sounded. Brady often got a ride home with Jessica Moore—apparently they were neighbors—but she had started cross country practice the week before. Dean approached him silently.   
“Hey, punk,” he whispered as soon as he was close enough to be heard.  
Brady jumped, then quickly tried to cover. Dean snickered. It was about time this kid had his pride taken down a few notches.   
“I don’t appreciate bullies,” Dean said, “but I mind my own business. But once you start picking on my brother, it’s my problem.”   
Brady shook his head, and Dean itched to wipe that obnoxious smirk off his face.   
“You think you’re tough, Winchester, and maybe you are. But you’re also a loner freak like your brother, and at this school? It pays to have friends.”  
As if on cue—hell, they probably were acting on cue—a number of muscled upperclassmen stepped into view from around both corners of the building. Dean swallowed nervously but didn’t let the sentiment show. He allowed himself a moment to be proud that he had a much better poker face than that stupid Brady kid, then he returned to assessing the situation.   
“You looking for a fight, Winchester?” growled the only one of the guys Dean recognized, a fellow senior from his biology class named Alastair.   
Dean wanted to spit a defiant “you bet I am” back in the douchebag’s face, but after further analysis deemed the course of action unwise. One he could take, hell, two he could take, but three was pushing it a little too far. Dean was good, but he wasn’t that good.   
Dean was still deciding on a course of action when a fist collided with Alistair’s face at high speed. In the ensuing confusion Dean heard an unfamiliar gravelly voice shout, “Run!” Dean stayed where he stood, fending off one of Alastair’s henchmen with a blow when he came at him.   
“Come on!” the voice shouted again, and a hand grabbed Dean by the shoulder, yanking him out of the way. That grip is probably tight enough to leave a bruise, he thought absently, but he didn’t mind the pain.   
The stranger led him down a series of unfamiliar streets. When Alastair and his thugs were out of sight and there was no sign they were being followed, the pair slowed to a stop on the sidewalk.   
Dean glanced up at his savior’s face, and his attention was immediately grabbed by the pair of concerned blue eyes that looked too bright to rest under hair so dark.   
“Dude,” Dean panted, “thanks. Who are you?”   
Dean realized only after the words had come tumbling out of his mouth that the phrasing had been rather unusual; that most people would have asked “what’s your name?” But the question he had asked had been the one swimming through his mind throughout the entire sprint.   
The blue-eyed stranger smiled slightly, but his voice was earnest.   
“My name is Castiel, and I am the one who just saved your ass.”


	3. Behind Blue Eyes

Dean chuckled nervously.   
“Yeah, uh, like I said. I really appreciate that,” Dean shifted more of his weight onto his left foot. “I’m Dean Winchester, by the way.   
Castiel nodded seriously. From what Dean could tell, Castiel did everything seriously.   
“I thought so. I’ve… heard your name. I am Castiel Milton.”  
Dean shook his head.   
“Wow, man, what made your parents stick you with a mouthful like that?”  
Even as he cracked jokes about it, Dean realized that he sort of liked the sound of it. Castiel Milton. It would have been a burden for most people, but it somehow seemed to fit this thoughtful, blue-eyed boy in front of him.   
“I have a brother who shares a name with the devil,” Castiel replied calmly.   
Dean tried to smother his laughter, but found that he couldn’t do it. The sound rang out through the empty streets of the strange neighborhood, if the corners of Castiel’s mouth curled up imperceptibly, well, it could have been a coincidence.   
“Dude. That’s great. That’s really, really great,” Dean was grinning stupidly.   
He noticed Castiel’s usual—or at least he assumed it was, he didn’t know the guy—half frown had returned.   
“So, uh,” Dean coughed awkwardly, trying to change the subject. “What grade are you in?”  
“I am a senior,” Castiel responded, visibly more relaxed now that the topic of conversation was no longer his family.   
“Oh. I guess I’ve just never seen you around,” Dean replied, glumly.   
People may not have noticed him, but Dean Winchester always noticed people. He was good at observing, and he had plenty of time to do it since no one really talked to him. He didn’t think he would have missed someone as, well, as interesting as Castiel Milton.   
“That’s most likely because today was my first day at your school and I spent most of it in the office sorting out the paperwork they messed up,” Castiel said.   
Dean felt his spirits rise again.   
“I’m new here, too. Well, sort of. I spent most of my sophomore year here, but I haven’t been back since then,” he said.   
“Your brother also attends our school, doesn’t he?” Castiel inquired.   
He noticed Dean practically glowed at the mention of his brother.   
“Yeah, Sammy’s a freshman. Real smart, though. He’s a great kid.”  
“The two of you move around a lot then,” Castiel noted.   
“Yeah, uh,” What the hell, Dean thought, and decided to press on. For reasons he didn’t really understand, he trusted Castiel. “Our mom died when we were little. Our dad isn’t… around… that much.”  
John Winchester was hard to explain.   
“My parents aren’t in the picture, either,” Castiel replied. “I’m sorry about your mother.”   
“Thanks,” Dean said. “Do you move around a lot too?”  
Castiel stared at the ground.   
“No. This is actually the first time I’ve moved since I was a child.”  
“Can I ask why?”   
“My, uh, my brother is… on probation,” Cas explained as calmly as he could.   
“Dude!” Dean exclaimed. “It’s gotta be Beelzebub, right?”   
He’d have to thank Mr. Mort for giving them that quiz on Biblical figures.   
Castiel’s eyes shot back up to meet Dean’s.   
“His name is Lucifer. And…yes.”  
Dean missed the hesitation in Castiel’s voice.   
“So, what, is he like a tattoo artist or a drug dealer or something? Name like that, it’s destiny man!”  
Castiel looked at Dean strangely.   
“He went through what you could call a ‘rebellious’ phase when he was a teenager, but he ended up going into business like the rest of my family.”  
Dean nodded at this news.   
“How’d he get on probation, then? If you don’t mind my asking.”  
“I believe he was running some sort of scam. I never really found out the details,” Cas said. “And I don’t mind if you ask me questions. If I don’t feel comfortable answering I simply won’t.”  
Dean absorbed this information. It felt… good to be with someone who didn’t mind curiosity. Dean’s dad didn’t really like being asked questions, and he already knew everything about Sam.   
“Okay, here’s a question,” Dean said. “Where the hell are we?”  
Cas looked around him.   
“I have no idea. As I said, I only arrived here yesterday. Considering you spent most of a year here before, I think you would be more qualified to answer that one,” he said.   
Dean sighed.  
“Well that’s great. I’ve never been to this neighborhood before.”  
Pretty much the only places Dean had been in this town were the high school, the middle school Sam went to, the motel on fifth, the dingy grocery store on center street, a couple of fast food restaurants, Jo’s, and a couple of times, Lisa’s.   
Dean and Castiel wandered through various neighborhoods, until Castiel stopped under a street sign he recognized.   
“I, uh,” Castiel paused awkwardly. “I know this street. My house is very close to here.”  
Dean felt the ease from their earlier conversation drain away. This neighborhood was… well, it was nice. And it had a reputation for being respectable, and upstanding, and normal. Not to mention wealthy.   
This was definitely not a good time to tell Castiel that he lived in a motel.   
“I should, well, I should probably head home. I don’t usually stay after school for very long and my brother is probably wondering where I am,” Castiel continued.   
Dean made one last attempt at a joke.   
“Satan?”  
Castiel gave him a look that meant right, because I’ve never heard that one before. But he found himself answering anyway. Something about Dean Winchester, about the way he just genuinely wanted to know, made Castiel feel like he didn’t need to hide.   
“No, my oldest brother, Michael,” he said. “Are you… do you know how to get back to your house from here?”  
Technically, Dean thought, it’s a motel.  
“Yeah, man, I’m fine. I got it.”  
Dean smiled, but his heart wasn’t in it. Castiel turned down his street and Dean walked down another. He thought of waving, or thanking him again for his help, but he kept his hand down and his mouth shut.   
It didn’t occur to him until he was back at the motel to wonder what a guy whose family obviously had money was doing walking around after school.   
******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************  
Sam was already back at the motel room by the time Dean returned. He tried to ignore the pang of guilt that Sam had been waiting for him, alone. His brother was fourteen years old, definitely old enough to take care of himself, and he had to want some alone time, right?   
“Heya, Sammy. How was hanging out with Jo?”   
Dean ruffled his brother’s hair in the way that Sam pretended to hate but Dean knew he secretly loved.  
“It was good. Ellen says ‘hi.’”   
“Maybe we should go over there for dinner this week. It’d make her happy,” Dean thought out loud. “You talk to that Jess girl today?”   
Sam had admitted the first week of school that he was developing a crush on the sweet blonde they’d been introduced to on the first day.   
Sam looked uncomfortable.   
“No, I haven’t really talked to her. She’s Brady’s friend more than mine.”  
Oops. Wishing he hadn’t asked, Dean quickly tried to change the subject.   
“You see any new kids around?” he asked.   
“You mean other than us?” Sam retorted.   
“Yeah,” Dean ignored the bitterness in his little brother’s voice. “Like somebody named Milton?”  
“Actually, yeah,” Sam said. “There’s a Rachel Milton in my history class. Just showed up today. Why?”  
Dean smiled to himself.   
“I think I might have met her brother. Well, one of them anyway. Guy named Castiel.”  
Sam’s eyebrows shot up.   
“Castiel? That’s seriously his name?”  
Even though he had reacted exactly the same way less than an hour ago, Dean suddenly felt the need to defend Castiel’s unusual name.   
“When you see him, you’ll get it. You wouldn’t think it would work but, he’s got this dark hair and these really blue eyes and—it just fits him, okay?”  
Sam was staring at him incredulously.   
“Dude, did you just describe another guy’s eyes as ‘really blue?’”  
Dean realized that he had.


	4. Us an Them

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a few quick notes! First, I apologize for not having this done several days ago! Second, the posting-three-chapters-in-one-day business that started this story has to stop. Real life insists on running interference, so I'm currently aiming to update every few days. Unless it's a particularly busy week there's a good chance of getting two chapters on weekends, though! I'm a little more nervous about this chapter than the last three so I hope you enjoy it!

Around six PM Dean realized he was starving.   
“Hey Sam,” he said, “You hungry?”  
Sam knew what that meant. Whenever Dean was hungry he always asked if Sam was hungry, and Sam always said yes, even though sometimes he wasn’t. It was their routine. Sam had realized at a young age that Dean often felt guilty about getting food if Sam didn’t want it. It didn’t make any sense to the younger Winchester, but he always made sure to give Dean the answer he needed to hear. Even if he was pretty sure Dean could tell when he was lying.   
Tonight, Sam was telling the truth, however, when he nodded in his brother’s direction.   
Dean exhaled slowly. Going out to buy food sounded exhausting.   
“How does pizza sound?” he asked.   
“Great,” Sam replied, not looking up from his homework.   
Dean ordered their usual—large—delivered to the room. The pizza place was crappy but fast and cheap. Ten minutes and eight bucks later Sam and Dean would have dinner.   
******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************  
Castiel hadn’t been lying when he said his house was in the neighborhood. Well, not exactly. The sprawling Milton compound was slightly removed from the surrounding houses by its uncommonly large, professionally-landscaped grounds.   
The landscapers were the only staff Michael hired for his home. It had been the same at their old house. No cooks, no housekeeping, but Michael had to have his gardens. The Milton family was isolated from most other people, and it had been that way nearly as long as Castiel could remember. There had been a time when Rachel was only a baby, when Castiel’s parents were still in his life, that they hadn’t been quite so cut off. But none of the Miltons had seen their parents in a very long time.   
The leash the judge had slapped on Lucifer only served to accentuate the separation from the outside world. Lucifer couldn’t leave their house—not for another six months, and that was if he managed to behave—and the others found it easier to spend as much time as possible within his radius as well.   
At least, Rachel and Castiel did. Michael was also home nearly all of the time, shut away into his office where Castiel never spoke to him. Anna and Gabriel found other ways of coping, by being away from home as often as possible. Castiel found that he missed them, but he wouldn’t ask them to spend more time with him. If they had friends outside the dysfunctional family that threatened to smother anyone who dared venture near, good for them.   
Sometimes Castiel wondered if he wanted friends, too.   
When he thought about it that night after returning home—he spent a lot of time thinking—his mind kept returning to Dean Winchester. Maybe he should talk to him at school tomorrow. At the very least, he wanted to make sure Alastair and his cohorts didn’t come looking for revenge. He figured he owed Dean that much.   
******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************  
Dean was biting into a slice of sausage and pepperoni—the more meat the better—and mushroom—his concession to Sam in the Great Compromise—when he heard a loud, short knock on the door.   
“Dude,” he mumbled through a mouthful of mozzarella, “did you forget the tip?”   
“No,” Sam said firmly.   
Dean groaned and hopped off his bed—the closest to the door always answers, it was a rule—and yanked open the door.   
He was too stunned to let go of the handle, instead keeping his arm half-raised as he held the door open.   
John Winchester was standing on the other side of the doorway.   
Dean cleared his throat of the remaining melted cheese.   
“Hi… Dad,” he said slowly.   
“Dean,” his father responded.   
“You, uh, want some pizza?” Dean asked.   
He wasn’t sure what else to say. His father spent so little time in the motel rooms he left them in that Dean had insisted the second room key go to Sam rather than John.   
The Winchester boys hadn’t seen their father in over a month.   
“Sure, thanks,” John answered, walking into the room and reaching for the pizza box. He removed a slice. “Hey, Sam.”  
Same did nothing to acknowledge that his father had finally greeted him, but relented at the pleading look from his brother.   
“Hi, Dad.”  
“So, uh,” John Winchester swallowed some pizza and reached for a second slice. Sam and Dean exchanged a glance—Dean had used his pocket money for that pizza—but neither said a word. “How have you boys been? How’s school?”  
“Fine,” Sam said, at the same time as Dean said “Good.”  
Of the two of them, Dean was more likely to lie, to make their father think they were doing better than they really were.   
“So you here to tell us it’s time to go?” Dean asked, exactly as harshly as he intended.   
John shook his head.   
“No, there’s still plenty for me in this area. You probably won’t see that much of me, but there’s no point in taking you along. Actually, Dean I wanted to talk to you.”  
Dean raised an eyebrow as if to say go on.   
“I was just thinking… it’s your senior year. If you want I could try to keep us here until you’re done, let you finish high school in one place.”  
Dean would have been touched if he could believe a word the man said. But it didn’t matter anyway. Dean didn’t think he was even going to be finishing high school. If he wasn’t going to classes every day he could be working, earning money. Get some decent food, maybe even find an apartment. A home for him and Sam was worth a lot more than a diploma.   
Still, the gesture from his father was unexpected. And Dean needed to react the right way for Sam’s sake, so John would bother trying when it was his turn.   
“I… uh…wow. Dad that’s…” Dean sputtered.   
John clapped a hand to his older son’s shoulder.   
“You can think about it. We’re gonna be here a while anyway.”  
We are, Dean thought. Me and Sam. You’ll be wherever the hell the you always are.   
******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************  
John Winchester spent an awkward night in the room with his children and was gone by the time they woke up.   
“Did Dad mean it when he said we might stay here until you graduate?” Sam asked.   
Something broke inside of Dean. The hardest part about his plan to leave school would be telling Sam.   
“It’s Dad. Sure, he means it for now. But something will come up just like the last time he promised to settle down for a while.”  
Sam sighed.   
“Yeah, you’re right.”  
Dean weighed the pros and cons of dropping out in his head. Pro: he could work fulltime. That meant money. Pro: He could buy some decent food, some new clothes, maybe even find an apartment. Pro: He could make sure Sam had a stable life until he graduated from high school.   
Con: He didn’t want to drop out.   
“We should get going,” he told his younger brother, who was shoving homework into his faded backpack.  
Dean found himself wondering if he would see Castiel at school today, and what he would say to him if he did.   
******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************  
Dean discovered that Anna Milton was in his second period art class. She had unnaturally dark red hair and sat across the table from him. Everyone else was taking this class with chattering groups of friends that had managed to squeeze themselves into seats at the same table. Dean was taking this class because apparently in this state he needed another Fine Arts credit to graduate. Which he wasn’t sure he was going to do anyway. He sat at the smallest, emptiest table, which also happened to be the only table with room to seat the new girl. Anna spent the entire class sketching trees in a sketchbook she had brought herself. She didn’t say a word to Dean, and he didn’t say a word to her.  
The art teacher was an unshaven, migraine-suffering man known by everyone only as Chuck. He smelled vaguely of alcohol, and rumors ran rampant that he had secret caches of both booze and porn stashed all over his classroom. The stories were never substantiated but they earned Chuck the respect of the students anyway. Everyone in his class pretty much did their own thing, and unless they spoke to him first Chuck soundly ignored them.   
Dean liked drawing cars. He covered page after page with sketches of his baby. He never allowed anyone to see them, and he tried not to think about the fact that Chuck obviously had.   
“Hey,” Anna Milton was standing behind him, clutching the eraser she’d gotten up to fetch. “You’re Dean Winchester, aren’t you?”   
“Yeah,” he said, surprised she recognized him. Wasn’t this only her first day?  
“Castiel said he spoke to you yesterday,” she continued.   
How much did Castiel tell her? He wondered.   
Anna, it seemed, had resumed silence, until Dean realized she was still standing there, waiting for a response.   
“Oh, yeah. Uh. I ran into him after school. He seemed… nice,” Dean stuttered, realizing as he spoke that nice was a completely inadequate way to describe Castiel. He also realized that he didn’t really know how to describe him. He could list attributes of Castiel—messy hair, blue eyes, one hell of a right hook—but his personality was a complete mystery.   
“Really? Because a lot of people who meet him for the first time describe him as a complete dick. He’s really not, he’s actually the sweetest guy, but he’s kind of… standoffish? Anyway, I’m glad you’re his friend,” Anna said, startling Dean again.   
Was he Castiel’s friend? No, not really. At least, he didn’t think so. But in a way, Castiel was his friend, unless there was a better word for dude who saved you from getting the crap beaten out of you.   
Anna sat down again. She shook her head at Dean in disbelief, but she was smiling.   
******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************  
Dean walked into history class prepared to ignore another of Mr. Guerre’s dull lectures on the French Revolution. He suspected that even if he’d been awake for the last three weeks of class he wouldn’t have had any clue why Mr. Guerre chose the French Revolution as his first unit. He was shocked—though he really shouldn’t have been, the school wasn’t that big—to see Castiel standing by Mr. Guerre’s desk. Mr. Guerre introduced him to the class, handed him a textbook, and released him to choose a seat. Which he did. Right next to Dean.   
He could only stare as Castiel slid into the chair, offering him a small smile.   
“Hello, Dean,” he whispered. He wouldn’t want to be reprimanded for talking on his first day in World History.   
“Castiel,”Dean answered, still staring.   
Castiel flipped open his textbook, glanced up at the chalk board, and frowned.   
“Seeing as it’s only the third week of school, why are we studying chapter seven?” he asked quietly.   
Dean shrugged.   
“The current theory is that it’s the bloodiest thing he could think of, but some smartass pointed out yesterday that World War II was worse,” he said.   
Castiel blinked and smiled.   
“Is the teacher always this dull? History is my favorite subject and this lecture is one of the most boring things I’ve ever heard.”  
Dean couldn’t help it. He grinned.   
“I’m the same way. Not the loving history part, although I guess some of it’s pretty cool. But this guy’s voice can really out you to sleep, man. We should sell it as a cure for insomnia. We’d make millions.”  
Dean didn’t mean anything by using we, that was how he’d always discussed hypothetical situations. But Castiel, who had spent considerably more time studying grammar than Dean had, couldn’t help but note the implied connection. He knew he was over-analyzing, as he often did, but he could not stop himself.   
For the first time since starting school, Dean was actually disappointed when the bell indicating the end of world history rang. He internally chastised himself for not thanking Castiel again for helping him out yesterday, or at least saying something. He reminded himself that Castiel hadn’t mentioned it either, and thought maybe he just didn’t want to talk about it. Dean flexed his shoulder muscle and felt the tiny bruise from Castiel’s iron grip, the grip that had saved him. Whatever damage Alastair and his cronies would have done would certainly be worse than the small mark he wore now. He’d just had a friendly history class with Castiel, and it had definitely been fun. Dean hadn’t really had fun in a long time, so he decided to ignore the elephant in the room, at least for now. If Castiel brought it up, then they could talk about it.   
******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************  
Next period introduced another Milton sibling, a blond-haired boy named Gabriel, who was apparently also a senior. Dean thought he remembered Chuck saying Anna was a senior, and began to wonder just what the hell was up with the Milton family. He remembered Castiel saying “my parents aren’t in the picture, either.”   
Seventh period was the idiotic Introduction to Music! class Dean had been forced to take by his guidance counselor. In addition to art credit, he still needed a music class in order to graduate. Consequence of going through eight high schools in three years, not that it would necessarily matter, he thought bitterly.   
Ms. Barnes was distributing harmonicas and lesson books meant for second-graders. She winked at Dean as she passed his desk, just as she’d done every day for the last three weeks. He barely even noticed anymore.   
Dean lifted his harmonica gingerly, taking in the first page of the book with disgust. How the hell was he supposed to play this thing? He was distracted from his plight by a loud crunching sound from his left, and when he turned he discovered Gabriel Milton sitting beside him, instrument untouched, chewing on a king-sized candy bar.   
That was weird. He could have sworn Gabriel was on the other side of the room.   
“You’re Dean Winchester,” Gabriel said confidently through a mouthful of chocolate. “Imagine that, I have seventh period with Castiel’s little buddy! It’s a small world after all!”  
Castiel’s little buddy? Dean found himself wondering if Castiel had said much about him to his siblings.   
“Does he have a photographic memory or something?” Dean snarked, “because you’re the second Milton today to recognize me.”  
Gabriel laughed—obnoxiously, Dean thought—spewing bits of peanut onto the desk.   
“Doesn’t take that much to pick you out of the crowd, Dean-o. I’ve never seen anyone wearing so much flannel.”  
Dean knew he should be self-conscious about the worn-out, inexpensive clothing both he and Sam wore, and if anyone else had made the comment he’d probably have been on the defensive. But instinct told him that Gabriel Milton didn’t give a crap about Dean’s socio-economic status, so Dean decided he wouldn’t either. Sometimes a crack about flannel was just a crack about flannel.   
“Must have been Anna you were shooting the breeze with,” Gabriel continued, “all of Rachel’s classes are with her little freshie friends.”   
“Are you guys like, triplets or something?” Dean countered Gabriel’s musings with a question of his own. “I’ve met three Miltons who are all seniors.”  
Gabriel grinned wickedly.   
“Oh, goodnesss, no,” he said. “Castiel and I are technically only half-brothers.”  
Dean snorted.   
“Well that must have been awkward.”  
“Our family situation is… complex, true. But it’s not as bad you think, actually. Castiel is a year younger than I am. He started school early. Precocious little thing,” Gabriel said. “Anna is technically Castiel’s cousin. His parents took her in when she was very young. Until they exited stage left, that is,” he explained.   
“And I thought my family was messed up,” Dean muttered.   
It was at that moment that Pamela Barnes chose to saunter by, apparently to check her students’ progress with the harmonica.   
“How’s it going boys?” she asked. The teacher was all smiles. “Dean, can you demonstrate a C for me?”  
“Uh…” Dean fumbled with his harmonica, squinting at the tiny, etched-on letters, centering one marked C under his lips, and giving it a puff of air. The resulting cacophony was even something Dean’s tone-deaf ears recognized as definitely not C.   
Pamela Barnes clucked disapprovingly.   
“I’m disappointed, Dean,” she was practically pouting, for god’s sake, “you’d better stop talking to Gabriel over here and get to work on that C. I expect it to be better by the end of the week.”   
She walked past Gabriel with nothing more than the usual wink, claiming the student on his other side as her next victim.   
“Dude, that is so unfair,” Dean complained. “How come you’re off the hook?”  
Gabriel smirked.   
“Perk of being the new kid, I suppose.”  
******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************  
It did not go unnoticed by the students of English Literature 12 that the day Mr. Mort handed out copies of Paradise Lost was the same day both Castiel and Anna Milton joined the class. With most teachers, it would be a creepy coincidence, but Mr. Mort was insane enough to spark rumors that he had somehow planned it ahead of time. Dean found that he didn’t really care. He was much more interested in Castiel’s presence in the class.   
“Hi, Castiel,” Dean called out before he thought about it too hard. He waved to the blue-eyed boy, who looked startled for a moment but soon smiled. His eyes darted to his sister, and Dean mentally chastised himself for being rude. “Hey, Anna.”   
Castiel looked up in surprise at the sound of Dean’s greeting. He was clearly gesturing to the empty seats near him, suggesting them for Anna and Castiel. Dean was the last student in the back row, but the row was one short, leaving an open desk in the corner. Castiel smiled in Dean’s direction, and made his way to the seat he had indicated. Anna nodded at Dean and sat in the seat directly behind him. It wasn’t the end of a row, Castiel noted, but considering she was the only student in the otherwise empty back of the room Mr. Mort didn’t seem to care. He was far too focused on extolling the many virtues of Paradise Lost.  
Castiel had read the book before, and he didn’t think it was all that good.  
The buzz of excitement over Paradise Lost quickly vanished as everyone opened their books and realized just what this poem actually was. The students’ attention quickly turned to more interesting gossip, mainly the fact that Dean Winchester, that new guy who wasn’t really new, had voluntarily spoken to the even newer Miltons.   
“So you’ve met Anna,” Castiel said, turning to Dean.   
“We have art together, second period,” Anna cut in before Dean had a chance to answer.   
Castiel’s eyebrows shot up.   
“You’re taking art?” he asked. For reasons he didn’t quite understand, he found this new piece of information… interesting.   
“Required credit,” Dean mumbled, and Castiel found himself feeling a little disappointed.   
“Perhaps you’ll find you like it,” Castiel suggested. “We all have our hidden skills.”   
“Like that arm of yours,” Dean said. “That was some punch you threw. And you’ve got an iron grip, man.”  
Castiel smirked lightly, and Dean realized he liked seeing the relaxation in Castiel’s serious face.   
“I wouldn’t be complaining, if I were you. You would certainly be in a much less comfortable situation without it.”  
“I’m definitely not complaining,” Dean hastily responded. “I meant to ask you. What were you doing hanging around after school, anyway? You don’t seem like the kind of guy who has nothing better to do, not like Alastair.”   
No. There was no way Castiel could explain that to Dean, not right now. In order for any of it to make any sense, he’d have to start at the beginning. And he wasn’t ready to start anywhere near there, not yet.   
“It’s a long story,” he said instead, “Maybe someday you’ll hear it.”


	5. Got to Get You into My Life

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Number of times I banged my head on the wall while writing this chapter: 43 So I do apologize for taking an unprecedented amount of time with it, it was truly a monster. I worry that not enough happens in this chapter because this one and the next one were originally intended to be one, so any feedback is of course appreciate. Enjoy the chapter, and I promise things will be picking up soon!

The lack of a seating chart in biology was both a blessing and a curse. On the plus side, it meant Dean wasn’t chained to unsavory neighbors, but it also made the class a minefield. Each day Dean had to estimate the farthest possible point from both Alastair—a back row dweller—and the perpetually contagious Mr. Rutto. So far Alastair had done nothing more than shoot some impressive death glares in his direction, but Dean wasn’t going to test his luck by getting any closer to the guy than necessary. He was always relieved when the bell rang to signal his release from that hellhole. 

Yet when Dean got to art that morning he suddenly wished he was back in the Advanced Biology warzone. The period started normally enough, Dean fetched his paper and pencil—and now a smile from Anna Milton—and prepared to sketch his baby again. But today Chuck beckoned Dean to his desk.   
He reluctantly obeyed, only to wish he hadn’t. Laid out on the Formica surface were all of Dean’s drawings—three in total—from the first few weeks of school. Chuck was gazing at them thoughtfully.   
“I’m very impressed with your work so far, Dean,” Chuck began pensively. “You have an intuitive knack for perspective and proportion.” The teacher smiled apologetically. “But how many cars do you expect to turn in this year? I’m getting a little tired of 1967 Chevrolet Impalas, beautiful though they may be.” Chuck inserted a nervous giggle, and patted Dean on the shoulder. Dean tried in vain to shrink away from the touch. “How about you try something with a pulse this time?” he suggested.   
Chuck gathered Dean’s drawings into a single stack, indicating as he did so that Dean—who was mortified—could return to his seat. Dean shuffled back, hoping no one was paying attention. But Chuck wasn’t done.   
The art teacher searched his desk for a stub of chalk, and having finally produced one write in large, squeaky letters on the blackboard: Portraits.   
“I’ve noticed many of you have a favorite subject,” Chuck began, using the teacher voice, and thank god he didn’t look directly at Dean. “But the point of art is variety. It’s important that the artist captures the essence of life, of humanity. For that reason, I am asking each of you to draw a portrait.”  
Around the room, the whispers of indignation began. Chuck was giving an actual assignment? Was he high? Had he run out of booze? Who the hell did he think he was, leaving them to their own devices and then making demands? Who died and made him king? One boy demanded. It’s like he thinks he’s god, a girl countered.   
“Now, all of you calm down,” Chuck’s voice boomed over the frantic exchange. “Your portrait can be of anyone—though I’d prefer it not be yourself—and I don’t care what medium you use. If you really want to, you can even sculpt it.”  
That seemed to pacify the group a bit.   
Dean, on the other hand, was in no way comforted by the lack of restrictions. He had to draw a person. He’d have to get a photograph, and he’d probably have to explain why, and that meant alerting another human being to the fact that he took art.   
Anna noticed his demeanor and sent him a grin from across the table.   
“This assignment sucks,” she complained. The look on his face agreed with her.   
“I thought you liked drawing natural stuff,” Dean grumbled.   
“Yeah, trees, landscapes. It’s not drawing people that’s so bad, though. I just hate being told what to do,” said Anna.   
“I know that feeling,” Dean muttered in response.   
Anna smiled to herself. She could see why Castiel seemed to like Dean Winchester. She hadn’t been too pleased about the move—it wasn’t her fault Lucifer was dumb enough to get caught—but things were starting to look up. Anna wanted to be able to consider Dean Winchester a friend. She knew Castiel did, and she wondered if Dean returned the sentiment. Dean wasn’t the kind of person she would have expected Castiel to be friends with, but her brother’s friends were never what she expected. 

“There is a lot of guilt in this novel,” Ms. Rosen was explaining. “Guilt over the broken friendship, obviously. But many readers believe that there is also another guilt, a guilt these two boys are afraid to even admit. In the setting of this book, they could have been arrested for confessing that they have repressed sexual feelings for each other.”  
While Dean and Anna were bonding over a dislike of Chuck Shurely’s new ‘I actually give a crap about what you guys do in my class’ policy, Sam Winchester was taking notes on textual clues in A Separate Peace. According to his teacher, everything in the book was symbolism for Phineas and Gene’s repressed feelings for each other. Sam didn’t take much stock in it, because as far as he could tell, Ms. Rosen felt every literary character was secretly gay.   
He glanced towards to front and to his left, to where he knew Jessica Moore’s assigned seat was located. Sam sort of missed hanging out with her. Jessica had never been anything but nice to him, but she was Brady’s friend, not his. Brady. It still hurt to think about how Brady had treated him. Sam wished he was the kind of kid who skipped class so he wouldn’t have to look at Brady’s stupid smug face all through biology. Sam stared at the clock and wished he could just go straight to math. Algebra was easy enough that he didn’t need to pay attention, which meant he could spend the whole class talking to Ruby. He was really beginning to like her. She was a year older, a sophomore, but she didn’t talk down to him or act like she was better than a mere freshman like Sam Winchester. And she was honest. Ruby and Dean had lunch together and she’d confessed to Sam from the beginning that the two of them were not friendly. She’d also promised to try to get along with him for Sam’s sake, and that meant a lot. Sam hoped Dean would be equally willing. 

Dean entered the cafeteria after the bell carrying his paper bag of lunch. He noticed Ruby sitting at a crowded table and realized she must have found some friends in their lunch period. Good. Dean ducked past the group, hoping she wouldn’t see him and try to talk to him. He chose an abandoned corner table near enough to hers to keep a close eye on the girl. Dean wasn’t comfortable with Ruby’s friendship with Sam. Preoccupied as he was with observing Ruby, Dean didn’t notice the figure quietly approaching his table. He didn’t realize another person was present until the newcomer spoke.   
“Hello, Dean.”  
Dean startled, spinning his head in the direction of the sound.   
“I don’t suppose you’d mind if I sat here?”  
Castiel Milton was standing in front of his lunch table.   
“Of course not, Cas, happy to have you,” Dean said quickly, not even realizing that he’d shortened Castiel’s name until the words had already rushed out of his mouth. His hands, halfway to his mouth with an unsatisfying peanut butter sandwich, stopped suddenly as, for a moment, his entire body froze. Castiel reacted similarly, and their eyes met, Dean’s asking silently for permission, Castiel’s giving unspoken approval. And then everything returned to normal; Dean bit into his sandwich, Castiel sat down.   
At first the table was silent; nobody knew quite what to say. Cas realized that he barely knew Dean Winchester. He knew that his mother was dead and his father mostly absent, that he had a brother named Sam who was a freshman and who he loved fiercely, he knew that Dean took music and art and that he hated Mr. Guerre’s lectures and that he thought Paradise Lost was dumb, and he knew that Dean liked to shorten names.   
Actually, he didn’t really know that. He was just working off the example of his own name. Castiel had never had a nickname. Anna had tried shortening his name on occasion, but it was awkward to do in the Milton household. Gabriel had no shortage of nicknames for everyone, invariably dirty or insulting or whatever passed for witty under when viewed through Gabriel’s twisted sense of humor. Michael always called him Castiel, so he was Castiel. He had never been Cas. He liked the way Dean had said it, how it had just slipped out like it was the most natural thing in the world.   
“Okay,” Dean said, snapping Cas out of his reverie, “time for a game of twenty questions.”  
“What?” Dean wondered if Castiel knew that he tilted his head when he was confused.   
“You know, one of those stupid ‘get-to-know-each-other’ things they make you do? Take turns asking dumb stuff like your flavor of ice cream?’” Castiel’s eyes showed no sign of recognition. “There’s just two main rules: no answering a question with another question, and you have to answer honestly.” Castiel still looked hopelessly lost. “Alright, I’ll go first. I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”   
Dean paused to think of a question. He didn’t want to waste it—he had to admit that Castiel was intriguing as hell—but he didn’t want to start with anything too personal. It was one of Dean Winchester’s golden rules, no chick-flick moments.   
“How many brothers do you have?”  
“Four. And two sisters.”  
So there was another Milton brother Dean hadn’t met. That put him at three out of seven.   
“Alright,” he said, “your turn.”  
“What?” Castiel asked again, obviously still not understanding the game. He was the first person Dean had met who had never heard of twenty questions, and it only served to boost Dean’s curiosity.   
“Ask me a question,” he explained.   
“What about?” Castiel answered, and Dean wondered if it was even possible to be this clueless.   
“Anything. Something about myself. Like what I asked you, about your family.”  
“Oh,” Cas frowned. “Okay, um… how many brothers do you have?” Unoriginal, but Dean took pity on Castiel and decided to go with it. At least the poor guy was trying.   
“Just Sammy. No sisters, either, just the two of us. And our dad, when he chooses to show up.”  
Dean tried to think of a good question.   
“What’s your favorite color?”  
It sounded stupid and babyish, but it was the best he could come up with.   
“Green,” Castiel replied immediately. He had no idea where that answer had come from. Castiel had never given much thought to which color was his favorite. Cas didn’t realize it, but the reason green was the first color to come to mind was that at that his eyes were awash in green. His eyes were staring into Dean’s.   
“Uh…” Now that the topic had been broached, Cas realized that he was dying to know Dean’s favorite color, but he couldn’t steal Dean’s question twice in a row. Quickly, Castiel tried to think of the kind of question Anna would ask, or Rachel. His sisters were so much better at this than he was. “What’s your favorite band?”   
Dean chewed his sandwich pensively. This was a question that he would have to give some thought.   
“That’s tough, man, real tough. I like all the classics. ACDC, Led Zeppelin, Bon Jovi. Kansas.”  
“I actually have no idea what any of that music sounds like,” Castiel confessed.   
Dean’s eyebrows shot up. Castiel Milton was one weird kid.   
“Dude, someone seriously neglected your education. Guess it’s up to me to teach you some culture. Okay, um… how many books have you read?”  
“I’ve lost count. It’s somewhere in the low hundreds.”  
Dean shook his head. And he thought Sam was a nerd.   
“What’s your favorite subject in school?”   
Cas knew, especially combined with his last answer, that question made him look like a nerd. He felt his face heat up and hoped it wasn’t turning red. When girls blushed, it was endearing. When boys blushed, it was pathetic. Michael had told him that.   
Dean didn’t know how to answer Castiel’s question. One thing immediately sprang to mind, but there was no way he was going to say that. Then again, he was supposed to be answering honestly. He could tell from the look on Castiel’s face—was he blushing?—that it had never even occurred to him to lie, and Dean couldn’t deal with the guilt of lying to someone like that.  
“Uh, art, I guess,” he said, hurrying to qualify it with, “I mean, Chuck is pretty cool, he doesn’t make us do anything dumb, you know? What’s yours?”   
He’d let Castiel steal his question for free earlier, so Dean figured he’d earned the right to use the same technique to change the subject. Castiel didn’t even seem to notice.   
“Oh, I suppose mine is art as well. At my old school it was history, but Mr. Guerre’s class leaves… something to be desired.”  
Dean chuckled.   
“Guy like you, gotta say I was expecting English.”  
Castiel shook his head slowly.   
“English classes make you read old, famous, books, many of which do not live up to their reputations. And when they do teach about truly great books, they are full of lies and their own ideas of what they have to mean and they ruin them. I’d rather read classics without all the strings attached.”  
“Huh.”  
Dean took another bite of his sandwich. He thought it was kind of weird that Cas wasn’t eating, but he could have had something before he sat down. Dean didn’t spend any more time on it.   
Across the table, Cas watched Dean eat. Cas didn’t like eating lunch, but he often found the choices of others provided great windows into their lives. It was embarrassing to admit, because he knew it was rude, but Castiel loved people watching. And if his specimen just happened to be someone especially interesting, like Dean Winchester, Cas couldn’t help but be captivated.   
The question he hadn’t asked earlier was on the tip of his tongue, about to spill out, and Cas was growing nervous. It was his turn and he was taking too long. He’d managed to distract Dean for a minute with his speech about the sins of literature in education, but he needed a question now and he wasn’t ready. Dean had turned his own question back on him, though, so didn’t that mean it was okay?  
“What’s your favorite color?” Cas blurted out, unable to resist any longer. Dean was looking at him like it was the most mundane question in the world, and suddenly Cas was embarrassed that he had exclaimed it like it was something important. And yet to him it was of great import. He wanted to know.   
“That’s your question? What’s my favorite color?” Dean asked, masking his amusement with faux skepticism.   
“Yes,” Castiel snapped, ready to defend himself.   
Dean shrugged and went back to concentrating on his sandwich.   
“Blue,” he said.

Dean and Cas walked to history together. They sat down at their adjacent desks and complained about the lecture topic being the Reign of Terror for the third day in a row. There was a rumor running through the school that Mr. Guerre and Mr. Rutto were locked in a fierce competition to see who could put more students into comas just by talking. Dean knew he was biased because he was also too edgy in biology to fall asleep, but after today he was starting to give the edge to Guerre. He glanced at Cas, who was occasionally scribbling in an open notebook. It figured that Castiel Milton would be the kind of diligent kid who took notes in class even though he already knew everything. Dean tried to read what he was writing but he was at the wrong angle to decipher Castiel’s tiny, looping script.   
Halfway through the class the notebook landed on Dean’s desk, startling him out of trance. What Dean had assumed was a page of notes on the Reign of Terror was, in fact, a neat column of tallies labeled ‘Number of Times Mr. Guerre Has Uttered the Word ‘Guillotine’ Today’ with a note saying “Did I miss any?”  
Dean grinned involuntarily. He’d found himself doing that a lot lately, more than he could remember doing in a long time. For the last few years most of his smiles had been forced, mainly for Sam’s benefit.   
“I was zoned out,” he scrawled back, “but I think you got them all.”   
He did a quick count—there were twenty-five tally marks—before passing the notebook to a grinning Cas. So much for the obedient little student. This, Dean realized, was what it felt like to have friends.


End file.
